


People Like Us

by orphan_account



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Bottom Strade, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23046832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Strade was out on the hunt that night.Unfortunately for him, so were you.
Relationships: Strade (BTD/TNR)/Original Character(s), Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 118





	People Like Us

He's cute, you think, in a magnetic sort of way. Tousled brown hair, an easy smile, golden eyes that reflect the dim light of the bar. It's not difficult to imagine how he snares his prey. You watch with distant satisfaction as he slides in and out of conversations with strangers, moving on quickly and effortlessly from the ones he knows won't work. You take a sip of your drink, peering at him through a lidded gaze.

Finally, he seems to settle on someone. A young, carefree man with a clear tendency towards youthful rebellion. He laughs and tucks his hair behind his ear at all the right times, and in less than an hour your target is whisking him away into the night.

That's your cue.

You set down your glass on a table and quietly slink out of the building. Around the back, there are some cars parked along the roadside - and there you spot his run-down truck. You already unlocked the doors earlier while he was gone; slipping inside takes only a second. And there you wait, in the darkness of the backseat, as he brings his prey into his trap.

"Hey, there's no handle on this door," the young man says, a little too inebriated to panic. "Kinda wei-"

And before he can finish his words, his head is smashed against the door, knocking him out instantly. In front of you, your target chuckles, innocent and light, like a child about to open a Christmas present.

And that's when you wrap the rope around his neck. He jerks, fingers scrabbling at his throat, thrashing as you pull harder, squeezing the breath out of him. He fights for longer than your usual fare, but that's expected. A few moments after he at last goes limp, you release your grip on the rope and hop out of the truck, dragging him out and depositing him in your own car just behind it.

This is going to be a good night, you think.

\--

When he wakes up, he's in a setup that you're sure is intimately familiar to him - only reversed. His wrists tied to a pole, sitting helplessly in a room without windows. You've been waiting for him, leaning against the wall and passing the time by looking through his wallet and inspecting all the other tools of his you've disposed from him while he was unconscious.

He glares at you, teeth bared like a beast. "Who are you," he demands.

You smile. "Just consider me an admirer of yours... Strade." You crouch down in front of him, drinking in the close view of his face. The stubble on his chin, his thick dark brows, the scar below his lip. Rugged, almost dirty - and yet, to you, devilishly adorable. "I've been watching you for a long time, Strade. What do you think of this?" You gesture to the room. "I tried to replicate it best I could with the resources I have."

"I'm impressed," he says dryly. "But you haven't told me your intentions."

You tilt your head. "You're a bright man," you say. "Think. Trapped in a stranger's basement, tied up, helpless, with no one looking for you... well. You already know what you would do, were you in my shoes."

For a moment, he just stares, anger bubbling in his eyes. And then, all of a sudden - he laughs. It's a smudge unhinged. You watch quietly, drinking in the sound and the image of his desperate humor. Once he's done he looks at you, shaking his head, and between breaths, says, "Well? Are you going to start, then?"

"Now that you're ready, I will." You lean forward, grasping his knife between your fingers, and slice through his clothing. He doesn't resist, only watches distantly as you peel away his garments, everything, his underwear, his shoes, but not his dirty mismatched socks (mostly because you don't want to touch them without gloves).

Like this, you take him in: Strade, exposed, every inch of his flesh yours to feast on. The longer you make him wait the more visibly antsy he gets, and you can't deny it excites you to see him agitated.

"The thing is," you whisper, leaning in close, "I want you to enjoy this. That's very important to me."

"Sorry to say you won't be getting any enjoyment out of me, then," he hisses, but his breath hitches in his throat and he chokes down any further retorts he might have had when you suddenly wrap your fingers around his crotch.

"I'm very good at what I do," you say, and you begin to work your fingers up and down his length. Despite himself, he starts to harden, and he bites down on his lower lip. The sound of his breathing beginning to frenzy excites you, too, but you resist the urge to move too quickly. You want to draw this out, make it last - Strade is someone you've been dying to have for weeks.

You uncap the lube that was sitting your pocket and smear it across his dick. He moans - he can't help himself - and his face starts to flush.

"Fuck you," he pants, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Oh, fuck me indeed," you reply, and your now-slick fingers find their way to his entrance.

At that, his eyelids fly open. "No," he says, choking back his fear. "Nein."

"Ja," you reply mockingly, and insert your fingers into his hole. He cringes, jerking upwards, but you can see the surprise evident on his face as he realizes it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he expected it to.

"That's the thing that gets me about people like us," you say absentmindedly as you continue fingering his hole, spreading it, exploring it. "We're so comfortable dishing it out on others that we can't even fathom being on the receiving end."

Strade is barely listening to you, you think; he's looking away as much as he can, jagged teeth squeezing down on his lip until a trickle of blood starts to dribble down his chin. His face is so, so red.

He's so cute you could just eat him. But not yet.

At last you unzip yourself, freeing your erection. He doesn't even notice. One hand still knuckle-deep in his ass, you bring your other hand back to his dick and start giving it attention again. A high-pitched whine escapes his lips.

So consumed is he in the foreign sensation of getting attention on two sides that he barely has time to react when you suddenly hoist him up and seat him right on your lap, his legs straddling your torso, your cock against his naked flesh.

He inhales sharply. "Don't," he begs again, but you aren't listening; with one hand you're guiding yourself into him, with the other you keep him suspended. He throws his head back and cries out, curses, hisses, tries in vain to flail as you slowly, slowly enter him.

After what seems like an eternity, you're as far inside as you can be presently. Strade is trembling above you. His head is thrown back and there are tears at the corners of his closed eyes.

"Tell me," you murmur, trailing your lips up his body, to his ear. "When you do this to your victims, have you ever thought about how it felt for them?"

He doesn't answer. He's shaking violently. Straining.

You grab the knife again and slice open his arm. He gasps. You watch the blood trail down his skin. "Answer me."

He swallows. He licks his lips, eyes still averted. "No," he says hoarsely.

"No," you repeat, "you wouldn't care. After all, all you do is take and take, right? You put up a farce about them enjoying it, too, but in the end it's all about what you can gain." You grab a fistful of his hair and jerk his head back. "And that's where you and I differ." And then you start to move. He cries out, helpless, as he bounces on your cock, each thrust accentuated by the slap of skin and the slick, wet sounds of his ass.

You lean forward, fucking into him aggressively. He's gone soft. You're going too fast and you know it, but you can't help it, he looks so good like this, crying and sloppy and at the whims of your desire. You wrap your arms around him, find his wrists, and untie them. As soon as you do, he tries to grab at you. But you see it coming and grasp his arm and twist it painfully behind his back. He howls in agony.

You let go of him and pull out, letting him fall gracelessly to the ground. He shudders violently, trying futilely to adjust himself, when you slam him onto the floor, spinning him around so his face meets the ground.

You tie his wrists behind his back again. He kicks at you the whole time you do so, wildly fighting with all his might. And to be fair, he is strong, you'll give him credit for that, but you're stronger. You push him down, forcing him flat. The knife is in your hand once more.

"Fuck you," he hisses, "fuck you fuck you fuck you I'm going to kill you!"

"Good luck with that," you say, and stab him in the thigh. He's so shocked that no noise comes out - so you twist it clockwise until he shrieks. You leave the knife in for now as your hands go back to your cock. You already miss the feeling of being inside him.

He's still reeling from the pain when you slide back inside him again. He gasps, his back stiffening, as this time, instead of resuming your rough pace, you move slowly, sensually, one hand reaching around again to pump his dick. He shakes his head violently. "No! Nein! Stop! Stop!"

"How many times," you muse aloud, "have you heard those very words?"

You think you hear him actually sobbing, and god if that doesn't make you unspeakably horny. His cock is starting to fill up again, and his breathing is frantic. He's close, you think, but there's still more you can do to push him over the edge.

You shift your position a bit to change the angle of your thrusts, and at that he gasps. If only you could see his face right now - you can just imagine it - exquisite - the sheer shock of experiencing such pleasure at being violated so wholly. This is the moment you live for - breaking them - not the ugly, crude way he does it, making them beg for death, but something even better: making them beg for more.

A strangled moan leaves his lips. He's clenching around you. You know he's almost done. Your pace gets a little more aggressive, but by this point it hardly matters - and suddenly, just like that, his back arches and he screams as cum splatters out from his dick and his body clamps down on you, squeezing you even harder.

He might be spent, but you aren't. You continue to fuck him aggressively right through his orgasm, and he starts to sob brokenly. "I'm sorry," he weeps, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! That's enough!!"

"I'll decide when it's enough," you respond, and bite down on his shoulder. He winces as your teeth cut open his flesh, and you taste the salt and sweat on his skin just moments before the iron flavor of blood meets your tongue. You lap it up, savoring every moment.

You reach down and rip the knife out of his thigh. He yelps in pain - just as you stab it into his other thigh. Both wounds are deep enough, you think, that he may never be able to use his legs again.

All the better for you.

He's bleeding out like crazy, and you know you're going to have to stop soon before he dies. So you pick up the pace, fucking him like a ragdoll, until finally, (finally!) you feel the heat inside you reach its peak. With one last, deep thrust, you groan and expel everything you have inside of him. You stay like that for a few moments, buried inside of him, before you slip out limp with a squelching noise.

He's stopped moving. Unconscious already. What a shame, you'd love for him to be awake while you stitched his wounds. But you can't have it all. You sigh and step away, and begin to get to work.


End file.
